Page 11 of The Lost Reliquary
Now I know how to hurt them.
Now I know the weapon of a goddess’s destruction.
And not a godsdamned thing in existence is going to keep me from finding it.
Seven
In death, in life, brethren.
Lay bone and blood together
With ash, and with all.
—FROM “AT REST,” BY THE POET ANDRALLES
WHENIDIE, Iwill be honored. No matter where the spark of my life is extinguished, tears will fall, garments will be rent, and my body will be prepared and borne to a place of honor: Cineris, the necropolis of the divine dead.
Of course, that’s assuming I don’t die a traitorous heretic, an increasingly likely possibility.
When the next morning arrives, I am still at the Cathedral, trussed up again in ceremonial armor and ready to help ferry my fallen brethren to their eternal rest. The armor has, thankfully, been cleaned, but there’s enough of a lingering hint of monster goo that my breakfast churns. I adjust my rat helm, hoping for a little fresh air, but given the corpse-laden carts behind me, it’s wishful thinking. The demon helm turns ever so slightly in my direction, and I wonder if that’s Nolan’s way of quietly admonishing my restlessness. Like me, he sits astride a horse, waiting for the funeral procession to begin.
After our little jaunt to the reliquary chamber, we didn’t return to the Cloisters. Instead, Prior Petronilla deposited me in one of theCathedral guest wings, filled in a few logistical blanks about my new mission, then departed with a pleading “You must not fail” and an expression that definitely conveyed something more along the lines ofDon’t fuck this up.
So far, so good.
Nolan was already waiting when I arrived at the stables. There was a small fountain in one corner for the horses to drink from, and Nolan stood by it with his head bowed, reverie clasped in his fingers, lips moving silently in prayer. Only when I came within a few paces did he acknowledge me.
“Hey.” I didn’t know what else to say. I’d never spoken directly to anyone in the Dusk Cloister before—my shout of warning during the attack doesn’t really count—and anyway, what’s the proper greeting for someone you’re about to embark on a quest for a god-slaying weapon with? “Ready to get this funeral rolling?”
That earned me a strange look followed by a carefully cordial “Good morning.” Even stranger was waiting with him as the attendants fussed over the last of the equine preparations. He didn’t seem inclined to conversation, and even if he had been, I don’t know what could have been said.
Under normal circumstances, I’d expect attempts to unnerve me, maybe even a full-on goading. He’d likely have tried to find out every scrap of information about me—what areas I excel at, what weapons I handle best—as I did the same. Anything that might result in an advantage. Instead, we’d been given the same task, the same instructions, probably even the same breakfast. I wasn’t sure where that left us. I hated that there even was anus. Only one of us could be Executrix in the end, and I couldn’t help but be curious about what Nolan thought about that. Fortunately, once we took our position in the procession, small talk wasn’t required.
Around us, in the shadow of the Cathedral, thousands of mourners had gathered, some clearly having traveled all night. More, I’m sure, would be on their way; after all, nothing spreads faster than bad news. No doubt Lumeris would be covered in a veil of mourning for days, if not weeks, to come, before it returned to its usual devoted, decadent self.
All of our blood brethren are honored in death, but the level of fanfare has risen to match the scale of their tragic ends. The Order of Cineri arrived sometime this morning, one representative for each body. They escort each cart, in black cassocks, black hoods, and bloodred masks molded with the vaguest of human features. Like Potentiates, they are anonymous, but in a much creepier way.
This is the only other path open to me, the only Order I can choose myself: babysitter of the dead. Never to leave Cineris, save to collect the occasional corpse. Not a chance. I can’t imagine who would willingly put themselves in an even smaller cage. Already, the notion of being turned out into the Devoted Lands unsupervised has me itching with anticipation.
Nolan and I have been set at the front of the line of carts, an honor guard to represent our respective Cloisters. Beyond the carts is a contingent of Cathedral Guard, then a group of clerics—not of the Blood, but from the regular, lower orders, their hierarchy too convoluted to bother sorting out—praying like it’s going out of fashion. The common mourners will be allowed to follow behind them, to show their respect as we escort the dead to their final place of rest.
Somewhere in the Cathedral, a horn sounds—a low, mournful note that spreads like a fog.
That’s the signal.
We urge our horses forward. The pace we set is a slow one, respectful as we pass through the high gate of the Cathedral complex, into the streets of Lumeris. The city of light. Of the Flame. Nowhere else in the Devoted Lands does one find the beauty and artistry that makes up Lumeris. Poets have written entire tomes about the sweeping splendor of its streets, the sunset tones and gilded ornament of its buildings. I hate it. It is a predatory magnificence, a fat tick that feeds off an endless flow of tribute, drinks dry the pilgrims desperate to feel the warmth of divinity on their skin. I want to dig my heels into my horse, gallop out of the city and into the open landscape. But that’s not exactly proper funeral etiquette. So, I keep in line with Nolan, gaze straight ahead, the creak of the wheels behind us a haunting reminder of when I first arrived at the Cathedral.
I was carried on a cart too. Alive, but barely.
There’s not a soul in Lumeris who isn’t on the streets watching us. A lot of hard, melancholy faces. A lot of tears and prayers. And a lot of empty rooms in the guesthouses we pass. My hands tighten on the reins. Somewhere, more bodies are lined up, hundreds of them, beginning to blacken, bloat, and leak. They won’t be carefully washed and shrouded, or receive processions. They won’t have mourners lining the streets for them. I wonder if any of them would be happy that they died in service to the Goddess, even if that service was only keeping a dangerous secret.
Probably. And that likelihood singes my very core.
I used to think about running. About leaving Lumeris and the Cloisters as far behind as I could. I’d remember the world beyond them, as little as I knew of it, and think:They’d never find me.I could disappear in the middle of the night, hunt and steal my way beyond the Devoted Lands, build a new life somewhere the addictive, toxic light of Tempestra-Innara couldn’t touch.
I even tried it, once. A few years after I arrived at the Cloister, our training went thus: Enjoy a several-day ride in a cramped carriage, here’s a knife, now go into the mountain woods for a week and don’t die.
A perfect opportunity.
